


desires

by savorvrymoment



Series: finding a way [2]
Category: Cursed (TV 2020)
Genre: Come Eating, Cuddling & Snuggling, Internalized Homophobia, M/M, Mutual Masturbation, Porn with Feelings, Religious Guilt, Scent Kink
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-11-23
Updated: 2020-11-23
Packaged: 2021-03-10 06:28:31
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,046
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27678773
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/savorvrymoment/pseuds/savorvrymoment
Summary: Lancelot's various 'first times' with Gawain.The explicit (smut) companion tofinding a way back home.
Relationships: Gawain | The Green Knight/The Weeping Monk | Lancelot (Cursed)
Series: finding a way [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2024021
Comments: 9
Kudos: 60





	desires

**Author's Note:**

> As mentioned in the summary, this is a companion piece to [finding a way back home.](https://archiveofourown.org/works/25584910/chapters/62091796) However, I don't think you actually need to read the other work to understand this. I'm really just indulging myself here by writing about their sex life, so there you have it. 
> 
> Hope you enjoy, stay safe out there! <3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Part 1 Warnings: Guilt, Internalized Homophobia, Come Eating

At first, nothing really changes.

They rise early as usual, go about their morning rituals, and then begin their day. Lancelot still spends most of his time working with the livestock, and Gawain still spends most of his time in the training yard. And at the end of the day, they meet up again for supper then retire to their tent.

There is only one thing that is different. Now, they kiss.

Sometimes there is only one chaste kiss before they lie down to sleep, one gentle goodnight kiss before Gawain wraps Lancelot up in his arms, closes his eyes, and drifts off to sleep. But other times, their evening conversation and camaraderie melts into easy affection, sweet kisses, soft little nips and a tentative tongue. Lancelot is eager, innocent and awkward but enthusiastic, and Gawain loves it all.

Lancelot remains fairly aloof in public, not allowing physical affection in front of others, but he’s very tactile and demonstrative within the privacy of their own tent. It surprises Gawain at first, though in hindsight, Gawain figures he should have been expecting it. Lancelot always wants to be held while they both drift to sleep, and there are times Gawain suspects he craves simple contact. His reaction to friendly touch ranges from the ridiculous to the sublime, from obvious discomfort to shivery surprise. It’s the main reason Gawain goes easy on him, doesn’t even suggest anything more than the kissing and cuddling.

There is also the obvious anxiety in the other fey. Lancelot is clearly struggling with himself, his feelings and wants—and as Kaze tells Gawain, _‘He was screaming over your dead body only a week ago. If you truly think him recovered from that already, then you’re a fool.’_

Though it would be a lie to say it isn’t frustrating. Gawain will be satisfied with only this, only the friendship and intimacy, if this is all Lancelot has to give him. But he’s almost certain Lancelot has wants, _needs_ , and is as frustrated as Gawain himself is. Their sweet kisses grow wet and dirty often enough, and their hands sometimes wander as they lie nestled together under the furs. Lancelot will moan and sigh into their kisses, usually letting Gawain do whatever he will, but then sometimes he’ll push close and kiss so fiercely that Gawain feels as though they may be set afire.

And while Gawain never let his hands dip below Lancelot’s waist, he feels the Ashman’s prick plenty. He gets hard when they kiss and touch, tries his best to keep his hips away from Gawain but doesn’t always succeed—in fact, he _usually_ doesn’t succeed. Lancelot’s body is very sensitive, almost overly sensitive, and little things can leave him trembling. A long wet kiss under his jawline and a tender caress down his side, and the Ashman will hitch his hips forward with a soft gasp, rubbing himself against Gawain. Usually he will jerk away immediately, flustered and shy, before tentatively reaching for Gawain once again…

But sometimes he seems to lose himself, and he’ll rut shamelessly against Gawain until he suddenly realizes what he’s doing and flinches away. That’s usually when the intimacy comes to an abrupt end, so it’s all a double-edged sword. As much as Gawain loves Lancelot’s body, loves the way the hard line of his cock feels rubbing up against him, he never gets to enjoy it for more than a minute before Lancelot is pulling away and gathering himself together. 

And gods, Gawain wishes there was something he could do to ease things along, but it’s not worth pressuring or scaring Lancelot, not now, not after everything. So he lies down to sleep most nights with his cock hard and aching, very aware that Lancelot is in the same way, and all the more frustrated for it.

~*~

Lancelot still has night terrors. They aren’t as intense and violent as they’d been when he’d first come to the camp, nor are they as frequent. But he still suffers them often enough to disturb his sleep schedule—and they’ve gone on regularly for so many months that they no longer trigger Gawain’s fight-or-flight response when they wake him. 

This time, Gawain doesn’t wake during the nightmare, but he wakes when Lancelot jerks violently up and out of his arms. Gawain pushes himself up on an elbow, blinking drowsy at the Ashman’s scarred back, at the way he’s heaving for breath. He doesn’t really come to himself until he hears Lancelot gag.

“Hold on,” Gawain tells him, scrambling up, ready to get their pot out of the corner. But Lancelot reaches back for him, shaking his head, says…

“It’s alright. I’m not going to be sick.”

“Okay,” Gawain says, settling back down on the mattress. He watches Lancelot in silence, at the way his shoulders move as he pants for breath. He asks, “What can I do?”

Lancelot shakes his head again, remaining silent, so Gawain just reaches out and lays his hand against the Ashman’s back. Lancelot shivers but doesn’t pull away, so Gawain rubs up and down his spine, scratches blunt fingernails along his shoulders. Lancelot’s skin is warm and soft, scars raised but silky smooth in that the way thin scars tend to be. Gawain likes touching them, giving some love to these marks of past pain, and while he can’t really tell if Lancelot likes it or not, the Ashman doesn’t ever seem to mind.

So Gawain rubs his back, waiting for him to calm.

Eventually, Lancelot murmurs, “I apologize.”

“You don’t need to apologize,” Gawain tells him.

Lancelot doesn’t answer, just breathes into the silence. Gawain waits for him to lie back down, because this is what usually happens these days. He shakes awake with a nightmare, calms himself, then lies back down and tries to sleep. But instead of lying back down, Lancelot asks, “May I speak to you?”

Gawain frowns. “Of course. You know you can.”

“I do not want to upset you,” Lancelot says quietly. “And my thoughts are… often upsetting.”

“I know you, I know your heart. I’ve forgiven you for your past actions,” Gawain says. “And if your words upset me, then…”

“No, it is not that,” Lancelot says, glancing back over his shoulder. Their eyes meet for a moment in the dark before Lancelot looks away again, takes a breath, and says, “There are things from my youth that have stayed with me. And I do not mean to cast blame on others for my own shortcomings, but…”

When he trails off, Gawain says, “You can always speak to me about what burdens you. I’d hoped you knew that.”

Lancelot nods at the side of the tent, then says, “I feel as though I’ve done this to you—made you this way.”

“Pardon?” Gawain asks, frowning.

Lancelot laughs, but it’s not a pleasant sound. It’s sardonic, scornful. “I wonder if I’ve corrupted you with my perversion,” he says eventually, still not looking back. Then, when Gawain doesn’t immediately reply, Lancelot adds, “Can fey corrupt other fey? Perhaps you were already like me—but regardless, I’ve forced you to your basest nature.”

“I don’t understand. Do you mean…?” He trails off, not really sure of the word he’s looking for, or even the sentiment that he wants to say. He settles on, “Do you mean _this_?”

It’s not specific, but blessedly Lancelot understands him. “We desire each other in… deviant ways,” the Ashman murmurs.

Gawain takes a breath to gather himself. His first instinct is to begin yelling about the Church’s nonsense, but now is not the time. It’s the middle of the night—they’re both tired, Lancelot obviously restless and troubled. A few misspoken words could ignite a lot of anxiety and anger, and Gawain really doesn’t really feel like being angry, nor does he feel like watching Lancelot try to hide himself behind that mask.

So instead of getting annoyed or frustrated, Gawain simply asks, “You feel this is deviant? Or—what other word did you use—corrupt?”

Lancelot looks back again. It’s too dark to see much inside the tent, only the shape of his face, his sharp jawline and nose. “It is not what I feel,” Lancelot says. “It’s what I’ve seen. I’ve watched men burn for these desires—for even being _suspected_ of harboring these desires.”

Gawain sighs, moves his hand from Lancelot’s back to his shoulder. “But you know that you would never be punished for this here. There is nothing wrong with what we feel for each other.”

“I know how your people see things…” Lancelot begins.

“Our people,” Gawain corrects. 

Lancelot sighs and presses on without comment. “I know that you marry people of the same sex, that you see no flaws. But I have lived the entirety of my life with a different story. An entirely different story.”

“And that… confuses you?” Gawain asks, unsure. Then, when Lancelot doesn’t answer, he says, “If you think poorly of me, then…”

“No, no, of course not,” Lancelot interrupts, sounding irritated that Gawain would even say such a thing. 

“I—," Gawain begins, trying to find the right words. They don’t come. “I don’t know what to say to offer you assurance. Other than to say again that you won’t be punished here for kissing another man.”

“I know that,” Lancelot answers, then huffs out a breath. “You must think me insane.”

 _I think you’ve been through a great deal of pain_ , Gawain thinks. “I just wish there was something I could do to put you at ease,” he says.

“I know that you wish to…” The effort with which he searches for the next word is near agonizing. “… _bed_ me.”

“Lancelot, I…”

“And I know that I’m frustrating you with my reticence.”

“Lance.”

“But I am simply…”

“Lancelot, please, stop—listen to me,” Gawain says, suddenly understanding. _Truly_ understanding. It’s not confusion or hatred over these feelings, nor is it fear that he will be punished, not really. It’s fear of the vulnerability of it all—of the emotion and want that he’s assumedly never allowed himself to feel before. Gawain’s heart hurts for him, and he says, “I don’t expect anything from you. If this is all you are able to give me, then I will be happy.”

“I won’t be happy,” Lancelot says, quiet, as though ashamed of his own words.

Gawain’s belly squirms at that, and he goes back to rubbing Lancelot’s back. Goosebumps have broken out on the Ashman’s skin, the sweat from his nightmare drying in the cold nighttime air, and so Gawain grabs one of the furs to wrap it around his shoulders. He wonders what the nightmare had been about…

Judging from their conversation, he’d think it was a sex dream, except he’s never known a sex dream to leave someone sick with anguish. Though Lancelot isn’t exactly the norm when it comes to these things.

“May I ask what your dream was about?” Gawain asks. “Because if you still believe in this Incubus…”

“It was not that. I mean, the demon still visits me, taunts me.”

Gawain doesn’t bother trying to tell him that it’s normal to have pleasant dreams, sexual dreams. He just gently rubs Lancelot’s shoulders overtop the fur.

“And I know he visits you, too,” Lancelot adds. “Which is why I think— _I know_ —I’ve sickened you.”

“Lancelot, I…” Gawain can feel himself blushing. “You’ve done nothing to me. Or rather, you have given me new sense of happiness that I didn’t even know I was missing, and I—yes, I dream. You are beautiful, and you excite me, and I often go to bed with you on my mind…”

“See, I’ve caused you to be this way,” Lancelot interrupts.

It takes Gawain a moment to realize what he means, but he laughs when he does. “You mean you think you’ve made me desire other men?” he asks, then when Lancelot nods, he leans his head against Lancelot’s shoulder, chuckling. “I’ve bedded other men before, you know? Before I knew you.”

That gets a reaction, though it’s not the one Gawain was expecting. Lancelot twists on the mattress to look back at Gawain, tucking a leg underneath himself to sit comfortably. It forces Gawain to sit back and look at him, and while he can’t see his expression in the dark, the Ashman’s tone of voice is clear as day. “You’ve bedded other men before?” Lancelot snaps.

“That angers you,” Gawain observes. “You think _I’ve_ made you desire other men?”

“No,” Lancelot answers. “I’ve—I’ve never felt desire for women. Only men.”

“Then,” Gawain begins, grinning so wide it hurts. “Then you’re _jealous_.”

“I—no,” Lancelot says with a huff.

 _You definitely are_ , Gawain thinks, smiling. But he doesn’t call him out any further, just reaches out to lay his hand on the back of Lancelot’s neck, stroking gently with his thumb. “I hope you know that I haven’t been with anyone in a long while. Not since we’ve been here in camp. Not since you’ve been here with me.”

Lancelot is quiet for a long moment, then murmurs, “I’ve never before… with anyone.”

“I’d assumed,” Gawain says, moving his hand to caress the other’s cheek. “You’ve mentioned taking a vow of chastity. It’s not something our people do, but I’m aware of the concept.”

“And I never thought that I would ever— _make love_ to another. This was a part of me born from the demon…” He corrects himself before Gawain gets the chance to. “Or at least this is what I thought. I heard many sermons of how the sodomites would burn, and so I buried these feelings inside of myself. You are the first person I have ever even spoken to of these things…”

Gawain closes his eyes, heart hurting, and continues to stroke his knuckles along the sharp line of Lancelot’s cheekbone. “Is that what you’re afraid of?” he asks. “Burning like they say?”

“Yes,” Lancelot murmurs. “But even more so, it scares me how badly I still want you. That I think I would gladly burn if it meant I could have your touch.”

“ _Lance_ ,” Gawain whispers, sighing, and leans forward until he can touch his forehead to Lancelot’s. “You have nothing to fear. There is no fire—none that you will burn in for this.”

“I know,” Lancelot says. “I know their lies. I understand now. But their words have stayed with me, left me sick with guilt, and I’m still… I’m still afraid.”

 _Left me sick with guilt._ Well, Gawain has a good idea what that nightmare was about…

“I’m sorry I’m not… better than this,” Lancelot says.

“Don’t. Don’t apologize. You have nothing to apologize for,” Gawain tells him. Then softly, “Come here.”

He repositions them until they’re embracing, Lancelot’s head laying on his shoulder. Lancelot buries his face into the crook of Gawain’s neck, sighing quietly. 

“Don’t worry about this, about us,” Gawain says. “There’s plenty else for you to worry about if you are just looking to worry.”

Lancelot chuckles, and Gawain can feel his smile against his skin. “I’d prefer not to worry,” he says.

“Well, this is alright— _we_ are alright. So try not to worry,” Gawain tells him. Lancelot’s lips press against the bare skin of his throat in a soft butterfly kiss, and Gawain shivers. He cards his fingers through Lancelot’s hair, smiling when Lancelot shivers as well, and says, “It’s chilly in here, let’s get back under the furs. Maybe try to get back to sleep.”

“Yes, alright,” Lancelot agrees, kissing the hinge of Gawain’s jaw before he pulls away.

Neither fall asleep again right away, but it’s warm under the covers. Lancelot’s body slowly relaxes against his own, and Gawain hugs him close, wishing there was something he could do to ease the other’s mind.

~*~ 

Things are awkward for a few days after. Their conversation becomes a bit jilted, their nighttime affection a bit strained.

And then one evening, sitting together in their tent and drinking mulled wine, Lancelot announces, “I very often think of those men in the woods.”

“What men in the woods?” Gawain asks, frowning, because there are a lot of men in camp, and there are plenty of woods.

Lancelot turns his head a bit to look at Gawain, and while he doesn’t answer verbally, Gawain understands anyway. The candles on the nightstand cast a flickering glow over his ash-stained face, making the heated look in his eye all the more impassioned. Gawain wants to crawl across the space between them and eat him alive.

“Oh,” is all Gawain can come up with to say.

“I think of other things too,” Lancelot murmurs. “But that is what has stuck with me. I dream of us there, and then I dream of the ground catching fire beneath us.”

“It’s ironic that you dream of burning when you seem able to control the flames,” Gawain notes. Then, when Lancelot scowls at him, “Regardless, even if you lit the ground afire amidst the throes, I don’t think you’d harm me.”

Lancelot grunts in reply, noncommittal. Gawain stares at him, at the way the light plays over his face, at his blue eyes and his pink lips, at the scruff along his jawline and the ash-tears trailing down his cheeks. He’s dressed in only a loose shirt and his braes, a blanket thrown across his lap for warmth, his hair down from its tie and tucked behind his ears. There’s such a soft sensuality about him at times like these, when he’s dressed for bed and away from the rest of the world. It drives Gawain mad with desire.

“You know, I would do that for you,” Gawain says, quiet. “I would _gladly_ get on my knees for you. Gods, just the thought of it excites me.”

Lancelot closes his eyes and lets out a thin little huff. “You would?” he asks, quiet, like he honestly thought Gawain wouldn’t.

“Of course,” Gawain tells him, reaching out to touch the other’s shoulder. And since they’re actually talking about it, Gawain doesn’t think it would be too forward to say, “I’ve fantasized about it, how you might taste and feel in my mouth. I bet you look lovely taking your pleasure.”

Lancelot takes an unsteady breath, his cheeks all pink. “I’ve thought about that, too,” he murmurs. “I mean, doing that for you. I don’t know how, and I—I don’t know if I could even fit you in my mouth… You’re bigger than me.”

Gawain chuckles, unable to help himself. “It’s not difficult—you just put what you can in your mouth and use your hand for the rest,” he says, scooting a closer until Lancelot leans into him, against him, nuzzling into the crook of his neck. Gawain can hear his quick little inhales, sniffing—he wonders what he smells like to the Ashman. Whatever the scent is, Lancelot seems to like it, likes burying his face against Gawain’s skin and just breathing. Gawain cards his fingers through the Ashman’s hair, murmurs, “Whatever you do for me will feel good, I know it. Your kiss alone thrills me.”

Lancelot grunts at him again, still nuzzling into the crook of his neck. But then, unbelievably, Gawain watches one his hands disappear underneath the blanket, between his legs. Lancelot groans, then mumbles, “I ache”

Gawain swallows, asks, “Do you mean that literally or figuratively?”

“Both.”

“Are you hard?” Gawain asks, which is an idiotic question. Of course he is, that was the point of his admission. And Lancelot is warm and sweet next to him, wound up and speaking to him about his desires—of course Gawain is hard, too. 

Regardless, Lancelot nods. He doesn’t pull away from Gawain, though, just rubs his face against Gawain’s throat at he does so.

“Would you like me to do something to help you?” Gawain asks him, wishing and hoping, but Lancelot shakes his head no. Though he doesn’t even have time for the disappointment and frustration to settle before Lancelot is pushing the blanket down to his thighs, then loosening the ties on his braes. Gawain gets a good look at him like that first, his hard prick tenting the thin linen while Lancelot fingers the waist of his underclothes, apparently steeling his nerves. Then, the Ashman shoves his braes down his hips and his cock springs free.

“Don’t—don’t touch me,” Lancelot whispers, quiet and embarrassed, and turns his head to lay on Gawain’s shoulder and look down at himself. Gawain nods, fingers still carding through Lancelot’s hair, and stares down as well because… _gods_ , but he’s lovely.

He’s seen the Ashman plenty before, of course, but always when he was soft. He’s thicker when he’s erect, curved up a bit toward his belly, the blunt flushed head peeking past the foreskin. There’s a little pearl of precome at the tip that wells up and spills over as Lancelot takes himself in hand and slowly strokes. 

Gawain thinks it’s funny how _he’s_ the one that moans at the sight, while Lancelot stays silent at the sensation.

He realizes with a start that his hand is still stroking through Lancelot’s curls, while his other hand has settled on one of Lancelot’s thighs, and he stops abruptly, pulling his hands away. But then Lancelot murmurs, “Don’t stop, please… I—I like when you pet my hair.”

Which Gawain had figured out some time ago, but… “I thought you didn’t want me to touch you.”

“Just don’t touch my penis,” Lancelot says.

Gawain smiles, twists to press a kiss to the Ashman’s forehead, and tells him, “Alright.”

It doesn’t take him long to finish. Gawain doesn’t know if it’s the nerves and adrenaline, or if it’s his lack of experience—probably both—but it seems it’s been barely a couple minutes of slow, steady strokes before Lancelot is canting his hips up into his hand with a startled little gasp. Watching him spill himself over his fingers and huff his way through his orgasm is simultaneously one of the hottest and one of the sweetest things Gawain has ever experienced. It’s an odd feeling, has him whispering words of affection and encouragement while he drops a hand between his own legs, squeezing his own throbbing erection through his underclothes.

“Gods, you’re gorgeous. Look at you,” Gawain murmurs, twisting and dipping until he finds Lancelot’s lips. Lancelot returns the kiss, uncoordinated and lazy, and Gawain smiles again his lips.

“Messy,” Lancelot says once he pulls away. He holds his hand up, semen smeared sticky on his fingers, seeming ashamed. Gawain can’t help but chuckle, while Lancelot flushes.

Gawain takes Lancelot’s hand, trails a finger through the sticky white. Observes, “You came a lot.”

“I—," Lancelot begins, but then Gawain pulls his dirty hand up to his mouth and gives it an experimental lick. His spend tastes bitter but wonderful, like salt from the ocean. Lancelot sucks in a hard breath and murmurs, “Lord have mercy…”

“I’m sorry,” Gawain says, realizing, “I should have asked.”

“It’s alright,” Lancelot allows, staring, his hand still held in Gawain’s.

Gawain leans in to lick one of his fingers again, then leans in further for a kiss. He’s ready to let Lancelot pull away should the taste bother him, but Lancelot shoves up toward him, licking into his mouth enthusiastically, curious and exploring. _Damn_ , but underneath that innocent guilt-ridden exterior is something fiery and excited and beyond willing. It’s just waiting for the chance to show itself.

Gawain groans, kissing Lancelot harder, more passionately, letting his lips trail down along Lancelot’s jaw and to his throat, sucking. He pulls away to mutters, “Ancestors, I’m so hard.”

“I know,” Lancelot says, and yeah, he’s probably tenting his underclothes enough that Lancelot can see. But then Lancelot says, “I want to see—see everything. See you come.”

“ _Fuck_ ,” Gawain groans, grabbing at his underclothes with one hand and pulling Lancelot closer with the other. Lancelot offers him his dirty hand again, like he just assumes Gawain might want it, and Gawain laughs, can’t help it. He gives Lancelot a kiss on the cheek before grabbing his hand up and shoving two fingers in his mouth, sucking on them like he’d suck on a dick.

Lancelot huffs out a breath when Gawain shoves his braes down and pulls his cock out. Gawain wraps a hand around himself and watches the Ashman—Lancelot stares, nostrils flaring like he’s scenting the air. His pupils are still dilated, irises little blue rings around pools of black, and his underclothes are still pushed down off his hips, his prick hanging out. He’s mostly soft now, cute and neat between his thighs, and Gawain’s sure he’s never thought of another man’s soft cock as being ‘cute’ before but, well… 

He’s also sure he’s never felt this way about anyone else before in his life.

“You’re so big,” Lancelot mutters, still watching Gawain stroke himself. And those words probably shouldn’t arouse Gawain even further, but they do. His belly is so hot, and that pressure in his groin and at the base of his spine is already so heavy. He’s going to come soon, too soon, but at least Lancelot went off fast, too. In fact, Lancelot probably doesn’t even know what ‘too soon’ is. Gawain takes some comfort in that as Lancelot turns his head, nuzzling into the crook of Gawain’s neck, kissing and nipping and sucking a love bite into his throat. 

Gawain twists his hand around his cockhead the way he likes and rubs his thumb against his frenulum until that pressure builds to its breaking point. He moans around Lancelot’s fingers, still licking at the salty skin, and spends himself wet over his hand, come spilling over his fingers onto his pelvis and balls. And _gods_ , it feels amazing—it’s been a while since he’s had a moment alone, had a moment away from Lancelot to take care of his needs—but everything is so much better with Lancelot’s warm body pressed up against his side, Lancelot’s lips against his neck, Lancelot’s fingers in his mouth…

And then slowly, tentatively, oh so shyly, Lancelot takes his hand away from Gawain’s mouth to run the tip of one finger along the head of Gawain’s prick, right down the middle through the slit. Gawain hisses, shivering from oversensitivity even as his cock twitches in some desperate effort to perform again, and Lancelot jerks away from his shoulder, murmuring, “Sorry… I am sorry.”

“It’s alright, just wasn’t expecting it,” Gawain assures him, leaning over to kiss him on the brow. “You can touch me however, wherever you want.”

Lancelot doesn’t touch him again, but rather brings his finger up to his face and… sniffs? Gawain opens his mouth to apologize, though for what he’s not sure, but then Lancelot experimentally licks Gawain’s come from his finger. Gawain groans, cursing, while Lancelot’s nostrils flare and his eyes widen. 

“You don’t have to…” Gawain takes a breath, lets it out. Sure, the sight of that was incredibly erotic, but, “Lancelot, you’re not going to enjoy everything that I do, and that’s fine. You don’t have to…”

“Your sex scent is… so appealing,” Lancelot murmurs, bashful. “I don’t know why. Usually I find sex scents on others disgusting, but yours? It… makes my stomach hot.”

And Gawain has a lot of questions about that. Namely what exactly a ‘sex scent’ is, and where Lancelot has smelled others’ scents? But for now, he feels tingly, happy— _Ancestors_ , they just had sex. Or sort of had sex. There was kissing and orgasms—Gawain’s going to count it as sex. He smiles, leaning closer to kiss Lancelot’s cheek, then his brow, this his temple. _I could fall in love with you easy as anything_ , he thinks. _I maybe already have._

Lancelot buries his face into the crook of Gawain’s shoulder, then covers his lap back up with the blanket. Gawain cuddles him close, wrapping his arm around him and hugging him. He stays there for a few moments just enjoying the nearness and intimacy, but he needs to get up, wet a rag and clean them up. Though when he goes to stand, Lancelot makes a soft distressed noise, grabbing at his thigh and attempting to burrow further into him. 

“Lancelot?” Gawain asks, turning his head toward the Ashman.

“I—I apologize,” Lancelot says, slowly letting him go, but Gawain shakes his head.

“Don’t apologize. I’ll stay here,” Gawain tells him. “I was only going to get a rag, but I’ll stay next to you as long as you wish.”

“Just for a bit longer,” Lancelot says, muffled against Gawain’s skin. He’s trembling, and so Gawain holds him close, rocking him a bit side to side.

“Are you alright?” Gawain asks.

“Yes, I’m alright,” Lancelot answers. A soft hiccupping noise that could be a laugh or could be a sob, then, “That was… good.”

“It was,” Gawain agrees, hugging Lancelot against his side and twisting to kiss his forehead. 

And Gawain is pretty sure he understands. Lancelot isn’t upset, isn’t scared, he’s just overwhelmed. Gawain can remember his own first time, seventeen-years-old on the outskirts of a bloody battlefield, clumsy and adrenaline-fueled. There had been a certain emotion that overcame him afterward, something he couldn’t really pinpoint or name, but it’d been there, this ache in his chest. And that had been Gawain. Lancelot’s been raised very differently, guilt and blame steeped into every teaching. Gawain can’t imagine what’s going through his mind right now, much less the feeling in the pit of his stomach. 

So Gawain just murmurs sweet words to him, tells him he’s good and sweet, strong and fierce, and doesn’t say anything about it when Lancelot quietly starts to cry. He just holds him tight and kisses his face until the tears slow. 

“I don’t deserve you,” Lancelot says eventually. “You are far too good to me.”

“You’ve brought me a sense of serenity that I didn’t think was possible,” Gawain tells him. “So don’t say that. You deserve everything and more.”

“It scares me, sometimes, what I feel for you,” Lancelot admits, quiet.

“We’re in this together. I’m right with you,” Gawain says, while he thinks…

 _And it scares_ me _, sometimes, what I feel for_ you _._


End file.
